Springtime For Llynya
by homeric
Summary: A more graphic alternative to the first chapter of Llynya's Song


**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

**This is a prequel to "Llynya's Song" although you don't need to have read that to understand this. A little one-shot that describes Llynya and Gawain's meeting; it's a little more graphic than the rest of the story so I've written it as a separate one-shot. It's first person POV which I usually hate writing, but for some reason it worked better for this.**

Spring has come and the air is cool and trembles with promise. The pale ferns lift their coiled heads above the damp forest earth and are nibbled by fauns that step tentatively though the woodland; their coats speckled and their eyes wide and watchful. In the meadows the daisies and buttercups raise up their heads to the clear blue skies and welcome the swifts and swallows that flit and dart, swoop and plunge through the morning mist.

I have seen these things before and I welcome them. Winter is cold months of hardship and making do. Winter is scraping mould from the apples left from the autumn and trudging half asleep through the mud to break the ice in the water troughs. Winter is grey and drab - the chipping away of frozen earth to bury yet another of the village elders who had neither the will nor the defences to counter death's cold caress. But spring… spring is hope, spring is as wild and free and as artless as the lambs that gambol in the meadows.

Spring is when he came to me, my golden lion. Spring robbed me of my sense and muddled my thoughts. Untouchable they called me, frigid, ice-queen, the cat that walks alone in shadows: and they were right to do so, for I had little to do with the villagers and they had little to do with me. My mother had died the winter before and I was happy enough in my solitude. I had the whiskered muzzles of the cows to tickle my palm when I fed them, I had the strutting cockerel who crowed indignantly when I slipped the warm brown eggs from under the soft bellies of his hens. At night I would listen to the wind rustle through the thatch on the roof, the dainty scrabble of mice in the eves. It was enough, and for a long time I had not thought that there could be anything more.

Arthur. Arthur and his knights. I had heard the stories - little more than half-remembered myths warped and distorted beyond truth by the time they reached the smaller villages. I listened and I smiled and I did not believe them. Romans were our conquerors and not our friends, their soldiers dangerous no matter how unwillingly they fought. When they came to our lands I kept quiet and still and watched them as warily as a doe might watch a wolf pack.

I continued with my duties - what choice did I have? Dawn would find me walking towards Sir Palomides castle, the buckets of milk I carried sloshing against my dress and running uncomfortably down my calves. The maids greeted me with the same polite "good morning" and I returned the gesture as though nothing had changed. I listened to the youngest whisper awed tales of the knights and their leader - their powerful muscles and their handsome faces, but I did not see any of them, and I was relieved not to have done so.

Of course that is not where my tale ends; fate has a way of making fools of us all, and if I am a fool then at least I cannot bring myself to regret my folly. We first met when he and his fellow knight asked for water. Their huge horses were sweat stained and powerful, the men that sat astride them barely less intimidating. I let them drink from my chipped pitcher and snatched my hands away when the older man made to pat me on the arm. The younger of the pair watched me with calm blue eyes, his hair a bright tangle around his shoulders and his big body relaxed in the saddle. I looked up and met his eyes and did not dare look at him again.

He came back that evening, his big grey gelding snorting at the piglets that scurried around the yard and making me jump. Pausing with a handful of grain in my hand and chickens scurrying around my ankles, I wondered whether to walk and keep walking, to pretend not to have heard him. Perhaps I should have done, but that is not what I did.

He was a warrior; even without the axe tucked into his belt and the thin pale scars that marred his skin, anyone could have seen that. He could not have been more than thirty years old but his eyes were ageless. Blue as cornflowers and as dark as the ocean, he looked at me and I did not look away. He bade me walk with him and I did. He asked me my name and I gave it freely. In the sunlit meadow he kissed me, my hands tangling in his wild hair and my heart thundering like the wild horses that race through the hills.

My mother once told me that love and passion are like rainstorms; they wash away our defences, our morals and our ideals - I am inclined to believe her. He did not push me, asked nothing beyond what I offered. When his duties were done he would come to me and tell me stories of the battles he had fought, the wide empty grasslands from which he had been taken as a child. I showed him the meadows gilded gold in the light of the dying sun, the kittens that tumbled and padded imperiously in the hay barn. Often we would sit by the river and watch the trout leap for the insects that flew too close to the water, our hands clasped together and my head upon his shoulder.

It was ten days before I stopped him when the sun had set and he made to mount his horse. Despite what the villages might say, I am no whore, he was my first, my only. If my maidenhood was a gift- and I have heard it called such many times- then I gave it freely. He let me touch him first; let me remove his hauberk and the soft jerkin under it, did not laugh when I was too nervous to look at him let alone run my fingers across his smooth skin. His kisses were gentle, patient. He took his time until without realising it I was gripping the powerful shoulders and whimpering for something I did not truly understand. He tugged the dress over my head and whispered words I did not understand, his mouth hot against my breasts, the muscles sleek and smooth as I dug my nails into his back. Backing me up against the bed he pushed me back gently, his rough fingers hot and sweet as they traced circles on my belly, the pleasure sharp and unexpected as they slipped between my legs. It was hard to breathe, hard to think; I writhed and begged like any wantonharlot I would previously have scorned, and I did not care. When he finally shed his breeches and rose above me, it was I that crushed him to me, I who nodded wordlessly when he asked if this was what I truly wanted. It hurt, but then that came as no surprise. The pain was sharp and brief, the pleasure that followed far outweighing any momentary discomfort. He rocked against me heavy and powerful, muscles coiled and his eyes flashing in the darkness like blue fire. He bit my neck hard when I found my release, my muscles trembling and the world reduced to bright white light, snarled as he found his own completion, his hair falling around us like a veil against the world.

He fell asleep beside me, all savagery erased by slumber, his wariness softened by sleep. Unable to let my eyes close, I traced the scars across his chest and shoulders and prayed to the gods to keep him safe, to keep him whole. When the sun rose he awakened and dressed, kissed me goodbye and rode back to the castle. The knights got their orders to return to the wall that afternoon, and in the chaos of organising provisions and pack horses he managed to slip away to say goodbye. His eyes were sad, his words heavy with regret. I kissed him and told him to forget about me, to be careful and stay alive. He shook his head and brushed the hair from my eyes, whispering that he would come back; that when he was free we would be together again.

I did not believe him. There are many girls like me, many prettier and better educated in the art of love. He would ride to glory or death and seek solace where he could. I no more blamed him for that than I blamed the birds for singing or the sun for rising. We are all prisoners, be it to duty, to religion or our own foolish hearts. But I did not regret our time together, and each night I would remember the touch of his hands and the warmth of his lips, and I would remember. And I did not regret a moment of it.


End file.
